Disclaimer: This is an amateur effort, written purely for entertainment purposes. It is not intended to infringe on copyrights of the television production of "The Sentinel" in any way.
A.K.A. Adult
by ysone
Blair reached his arms as far into the dryer as he could and began shoveling the clothes into the basket sitting on the floor beneath the door. He winced as his bare forearm came in contact with a hot zipper.
"Damn it!" he hissed, rocking back on his heels and blowing on the offended flesh.
"Blair Sandburg!"
Blair turned his head to see Mrs. Zalava standing in the doorway of the basement laundry room, an overflowing basket of clothes balanced in her arthritic arms. A look of admonishment deepened the lines on her well worn face.
"Sorry," he apologized, jumping to his feet and taking the heavy basket from the elderly woman. He set it down next to one of the two working washing machines and opened the lid for her.
"What would your mother say if she heard you talking like that?"
"Yes, ma'am," Blair answered obediently. He turned back to the dryer, finishing pulling the clothes out and into the basket at his feet. Once accomplished, he grabbed the basket and headed for the door.
"Blair Sandburg!"
Blair stopped in his tracks, wondering if Mrs. Zalava knew that she didn't have to use both of his names every time she addressed him. "Yes, ma'am?"
"By the time you get up to your apartment, those clothes will be wrinkled beyond recognition. You're a good boy to help your mother out by doing the laundry for her; but, how much help will it be if she has to iron that whole load of clothes because you didn't take five minutes to fold them?"
Naomi iron? Blair couldn't quite picture that, but to satisfy the woman he turned back and dumped the load onto the small folding table. It was just jeans and a couple of shirts. It wouldn't take long.
Mrs. Zalava added soap to the clothes in the machine and closed the lid. She rummaged around in the pocket of her dress and pulled out a couple of coins, dropping them into the slot on the machine to get it started. She then shuffled over to the folding table.
"Let me show you how to do that without making more wrinkles," she said, reaching for the shirt Blair was essentially wadding up. "You really should put these on hangers."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Your mother has done a good job raising you. Not very many boys your age would be helpful enough to do laundry these days."
I have two choices...do laundry or wear dirty clothes. Blair wisely didn't say that aloud.
"How old are you now, Blair?"
Blair repressed a sigh. Did she honestly think he had had a birthday since the last time she had asked...two days ago? "I'm fourteen."
"Fourteen! My, my. You could easily pass for twelve." The woman continued, mindless of the insulted grimace that crossed Blair's expressive face. "You'll be starting high school next year, then."
"No, ma'am," Blair smugly corrected. "I started high school two years ago. I'm a junior now."
Mrs. Zavala stopped folding long enough to cast a doubtful glance his way. "A junior? Well, now, how did that happen?"
"I skipped a few grades."
Mrs. Zavala finished adjusting the creases in the pair of jeans she was folding as she considered this new piece of information. "My, my. Your mother must be very proud of you, Blair Sandburg."
"Yes, ma'am." Blair grabbed up the stack of neatly folded laundry and shoved them into the basket, intending to make a hasty retreat. "Thank you, Mrs. Zalava, for the help with the clothes. I'll see you later."
"Tell your mother I asked about her," the woman called after him.
Blair waved in acknowledgment as he ducked out the door. Once he was on the elevator, he breathed a sigh of relief. Not that he didn't like Mrs. Zalava. She could be sweet when she wanted to, and she did make the best chocolate oatmeal cookies he'd ever eaten, but she never thought about what she said before saying it. Whatever she was thinking was out her mouth in the same instant, no matter how insulting or embarrassing it might be. Sometimes she made Blair uncomfortable. He thought again of her cookies and smiled. Fair trade.
On the second floor, the elevator stopped and Blair suppressed a groan as Scott Harrison stepped on.
"Well, well, Blair Sandburg," the man said, leaning lazily against the wall of the elevator, unnecessarily close to Blair, "Been doing laundry?"
Blair scowled up at Scott even as he took a step to the side to reclaim his personal space. "Man, you're quick, Scott. Nothing gets past you."
The man's toothy smile only grew at the sarcasm. "That's quite a mouth you got, boy."
Blair felt a shiver run through him at the expression in the man's eyes. He quickly turned away, praying the elevator would hurry up and reach the eighth floor.
"Haven't seen your mama in a while," Scott continued. "Where's she been keeping herself?"
"Working," he answered succinctly.
"She's sure been working a lot lately. I ain't seen her around in, I reckon, two weeks or more. She should know better than to leave you home by yourself too much. Boy your age is bound to get hisself into all kinds of trouble." Scott leaned closer, forcing Blair to scoot into the corner to maintain his distance. The man seemed to enjoy the discomfort he was causing. "Too many temptations...if you know what I mean."
I know exactly what you mean, pervert. "I have plenty to keep me busy." Blair turned slightly, putting the basket in his arms between himself and Scott, stopping the man's advancement.
Thankfully, the elevator dinged, signaling its arrival on the eighth floor. Blair hurried through the doors before they had even finished opening. He heard Scott laughing behind him, but ignored it, concentrating only on reaching the door to his apartment and the sanctuary it offered.
He fumbled with the keys momentarily before finding the right one and unlocking the door. Once inside, he leaned against the wall and breathed a sigh, relieved that Scott hadn't followed him. He didn't think the man would have actually pushed his way into the apartment, but one of these days, the man was going to go too far, and Blair had no idea what he'd do then.
His heart rate finally back to a normal pace, Blair pushed away from the wall, dumping the laundry basket on the couch and tossing his keys onto the coffee table. There was no point worrying about Scott right now. He had other, more pressing concerns at the moment.
Like supper.
He scooted between the bar and the table in the tiny corner of the room that served as a kitchen and popped open the refrigerator door. A quick survey of its meager contents drew a frown. Same stuff as yesterday. He wondered why he expected any different. Who was going to go to the store?
He closed the 'fridge and turned his attention to the cabinet. Same story. He briefly considered the lone can of spaghetti on the top shelf, before shuddering. Some things just weren't supposed to come from a can. The spaghetti was a survivor of Naomi's last shopping trip. Her intention had been to stock up on things that Blair could just heat and eat, without going to a lot of trouble. Unfortunately, palatability hadn't been a major consideration.
Blair closed the cabinet, his mind busy sifting through his options. The Watts' down the hall would probably just be sitting down to eat. Mrs. Watts was a wonderful cook. He could drop by on the pretense of...well, something. He knew they'd invite him in to share the meal, because that plan had worked twice this week already. Which was the problem with it; hhhe'd already overused it, and he didn't want to make them suspicious.
Okay, there was the Hinkley's on the third floor. Not quite as good a cook, but edible. Problem there was Heather. The twelve-year-old had a crush on Blair, and she didn't care who knew it. Her parents and older siblings thought it was "cute" and encouraged it. He'd just about rather eat ground glass than suffer through her advances and their teasing for the sake of a meal. Just wasn't worth it.
That left the Shumate's upstairs -- which he immediately ruled out; they would certainly invite him to supper, but barely had enough for their own four kids -- and Mr. Gilliam next door, who was a terrible cook.
Blair sighed, and opened the cabinet again, eyeing the can of spaghetti. He spent a few minutes mentally counting the money in the coffee can hidden in the back of his closet. He tallied the number of days before Naomi would bring home more and calculated how far those few bucks could be made to stretch. The results ruled out his vision of McDonald's. He grabbed the can.
Blair ate his solitary meal, glancing occasionally at the clock over the stove. When he finished, he stacked the dirty dishes in the already overflowing sink, debating momentarily whether or not to wash them. He really did need to wash at least a few of them, or he'd be looking for paper plates. Tomorrow, maybe, he decided. He had homework tonight and a test to study for. Besides, who was going to see it?
A couple of hours later, Blair set his Civics book down and leaned back in his chair, stretching stiff muscles. His eyes tracked again to the clock, and he frowned. Ten forty-five. Naomi was late. Knowing his mother as he did, he shouldn't have been surprised. All it would take would be a 'quick' hello to a friend or stranger, and his mom could be lost in conversation for hours. She wasn't known for punctuality, anyhow.
Blair closed the book, shoved it and his stack of papers into his backpack, then made his nightly rounds of the small apartment, shutting off lights and double checking the locks before heading for the bathroom. A few minutes later, he stepped into the smallest of the bedrooms and shoved the piles of clothes and books to the far side of the bed, before stripping down to his boxers and tee-shirt and climbing between the sheets.
The alarm clock was flashing 12:00 at him. The power must have blinked sometime during the day. Pretty much a normal occurrence in this place. Or maybe it was just this apartment. He should probably ask someone about that. Could be the wiring in here was bad, and Blair didn't want to have to find that out the hard way.
He reset the time and then set the alarm for six a.m. He wanted to get to school early so he could ask Mr. Ledbetter a couple of questions before the Civics exam. There was a moment's hesitation as Blair reached for the bedside lamp. He wanted to wait for Naomi. She was really late, and he was beginning to worry. But he needed to get to sleep if he wanted to hear the alarm in the morning. Blair was saved from having to decide by the ringing of the telephone on the bedside table. He grabbed it up before it could ring a second time.
"Mom?"
"Hey, baby!"
Blair visibly relaxed at the sound of his mother's voice. "You're late," he accused before he could stop himself.
"Am I? Oh, yes, I guess I am. Sorry, sweetie. You'll never believe who I ran into! Mark Stisher! You remember your Uncle Mark, don't you, Blair? We stayed with him for a few months when you were...oh, I guess you were about seven or so." She continued without waiting for Blair's answer. "We had the most wonderful time reminiscing and catching up! I guess the time just got away from me. You weren't asleep yet, were you?"
Blair sighed. What could he say? Naomi was Naomi, and he hadn't expected any different. "No, Mom, not yet."
"Everything okay there? Any problems I should know about?"
"Nothing I can't handle," he assured her. "You're coming home soon, aren't you?"
The hesitation on the other end of the line was a bit too long for Blair's comfort. He felt an uncomfortable ache move into his stomach while he waited for his mom's answer.
"That's what I want to talk to you about, baby." Another short pause, then, "Mark has only just arrived here at the retreat. He's planning to be here through the end of next week. I was thinking maybe I would stay and spend some time with him. That is, if you have everything under control there? I know I promised I would only be gone two weeks, but who knows when I'll get another chance to see Mark? You're doing fine, aren't you? No problems?"
Blair swallowed hard before he answered, hoping his voice wouldn't betray the quick rush of emotion working through him. "Nothing I can't handle," he repeated, hoping it was true. He hesitated to voice his next question, not wanting to sound like a baby. "How...how long do you think you'll be?"
"Another two weeks, at most. I'll be home by the end of the month, I promise. I knew I could count on you, Blair. I'm so proud of you for the way you're handling everything there!"
Blair bit his lip, not bothering to answer. He didn't feel very grown up right now. He felt like a little baby, about to cry 'cause he missed his mama. Damn it! He was fourteen years old! He could handle himself for another couple of weeks if he had to.
Naomi continued on, apparently not noticing the silence on Blair's end of the line. "I'll take care of the rent when I get there. If Mr. Brody gives you a hard time about it, let me know, and I'll give him a call. What about the other bills? Anything that can't wait until I get back?"
"Phone bill is due by the twenty-fifth, and I need ten dollars for a field trip we're taking next week in school. We're going to see a new interactive exhibit at the Science Center. I have to have your permission to go."
"Okay, let me think for a minute. It'll be okay to let the phone bill go for another month. I do it all the time. They won't say anything. Do you have enough left in the emergency money I left you for the field trip? There should be enough. If not, I'm sorry, Blair, but you'll just have to skip this trip. You can sign my name to the permission form if you do go. I'm sure no one will check it. Anything else? What about food? Do you have plenty?"
Closing his eyes, Blair leaned back against the headboard. He thought about the nearly empty cabinet, then pictured Heather Hinkley. He figured he could put up with the obnoxious kid in exchange for a meal or two. "Yeah, Mom, I got that covered."
"Great! I'm so glad I don't have to worry about you, Blair. You don't know what a help it is to me to know how independent and self-sufficient you are. You should go to bed now. It's late, and you have school tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am," Blair sighed, hoping he didn't sound as dejected as he felt. He didn't want his mom worrying about him. He was just tired tonight. That's why he felt so down. He'd be fine tomorrow. "Good night, Mom."
"Good night, baby. Talk to you tomorrow."
Blair stared at the receiver for a long minute after his mother hung up her end, then set it down, checked to be sure he had flipped the switch for the alarm, and turned off the lamp. He scooted down in the bed and pulled his pillow down to his chest, wrapping his arms around it tightly.
"I'll be just fine, Mama," he whispered into the darkness. "You taught me well."